Sonder
by e.e.caswell
Summary: When an unsuspecting, prospering historian, typically immersed in the lives of others, finds herself heavily entwined in the lives of pirates, her world turns a new page, and with it, her existence, and her previously nonexistent love-life, are rewritten. [A re-imagined telling of my previous story, Finding Me.]
1. Prologue: The Girl

_Gallivant_.

Those initial words, or captivating menagerie of opening phrases, are typically some of the most indelible units of a story that an individual can reflect on. Or at least they should be.

Stories are magical things; a culmination of enlightening and vivid imagery encompassing an individual's, or a group's, differing emotions and experiences. Nothing can be as raw, as magnificently dramatic as an intellectually, epochal telling tale.

Which is why writer's write. The difference between those who write and those who are written about is as obvious a contrast from those who play music and those who listen.

So why does society value words so badly? Are the tales of myth and man truly so vital? Or are they simply craving an escape from the reality they live in? These questions are conceptually the underlying probing basis for which this story was written: a story about a young girl, and her adventures. For what other purpose to write than to demonstrate to the world's youth the trials, tribulations and successes of a girl they might once have felt they related to, or even met? What better than to guide the world from the corruption and lead it towards the ethereal benevolence of the universe!

Thus, why I picked up this quill.

Thus, why I was assigned to share this story.

Thus, why I began to see the world in with a newer, more luminescent sense.

* * *

Perhaps, it is with guilt that I even dare to include the following paragraph. However, as I am an honest person, for that reason, I must attest to my shortcomings. Unfortunately, I, at times, fail to truly write with the utmost demonstration of proper grammatical structure. The flow will seemingly be off at times, maybe even illogical in its execution. The majority of this tale will demonstrate what was heard from word of mouth, as chaotic, cryptic and at times, dismal that it may be. I will attempt to convey it in the way she shared it with me. However, I will wait to reveal who I am, only occasionally including myself in the writing, in the words – _her_ words. I am simply the one behind the scenes, bolstering and embodying a steady stream of words. For this story is not one that I have lived.

It is only mine to tell.

* * *

1\. The Girl

 _gallivant: (v.) to wander about seeking pleasure_

She was young. That much was to be said about the girl. Young, and yet her eyes carried the look of one who had lived to see things few could imagine.

Her name: Rosalia Cass. She had always considered it to be a difficult name. The first name was a bit of a mouthful, especially when she was younger. Writing it always took longer than the other girls in her fellow years of education. But she valued it nonetheless. Her mother had found it fitting, so with a bitten lip and a mild grimace, she accepted it as a depiction of who she was: a rose. However, it was in her last name that she stumbled upon her greater grievances. For it was not a name she had been bestowed by her parents, but rather a name she had earned - a story saved for future writings.

She had been born to be extremely simple, with her own unique qualities. She had very fair, pale skin, something she had acquired from, again, her mother. As the years accrued, she gained a quantifiably large and sporadic collection of moles – those, she had a special love of. They made her different. Her hair was blonde; however, it was quite different than her parents' shades: an extremely light shade, with soft wispy sections of silver to heighten its abnormally bright coloring. That hair, well, she tolerated it. As different as it was, it also posed to be difficult in its styling. Its natural wave proved to be simply more than a phase it was going through. And her eyes? I certainly didn't forget them. They're certainly one of the most iconic pairs of eyes I had ever witnessed in my years: a stormy shade of blue, darker by the pupil and the outer ring of the iris, with the middle portion being alternating shades of cyan and slate.

She'd grown up to be the "happy-medium" of heights, not too tall, yet not too short: five feet six inches, with an extremely thin, yet attractive build. Puberty had done her well, but she knew she had yet some more to develop, if not in her looks, than in her mentality.

She was the one who ultimately pleaded with me to write her story. That was her nature. Pacifistic, yet pushy. Quixotic, yet intelligent. A follower, yet also, a leader.

Rosalia. The girl as conflicting as the sea.

* * *

A/N: So, perhaps an apology of sorts is due? I have been extremely lazy with my first-ever Fanfic on this website, _Finding Me_. I, sadly to say, have lost my previous inspiration for it. As I continue to read and edit my words for my old story, I realize the flow is wrong, the story is dismal and that I no longer view it the way I did. In reality, I have started to re-watch One Piece, and while I certainly am not Oda, and will never hold a candle to his writing, I feel that any sort of stories that I have written that reference his should at least try and convey the same love of characterization and world-building.

So, my dear readers, this is what I hope to be the final rewrite. I am truly going to take it slow and pour my heart and soul into this one. I owe it to other writers and the anime/manga series itself to realize in my absence from my story, I have grown, and that their vision for One Piece is something I should aspire to share. I have learned that stories require a balance of concrete characterization, a critical eye towards the world and a realistic approach to dialogues. I have gained confidence, enough to retire my old story and to rebuild it into one with a - hopefully - more promising execution.

That is the beauty of time. So please, bear with me. And review, review, review.


	2. The Pirate

After being at school for several weeks after I posted this chapter – despite enjoying most of the content I decided to include in it – I felt the need to check back in and revise what I had previously. I smoothed out some inconsistencies and added more in terms of characterizations and descriptions just to provide a larger picture of what is happening.

The next two chapters will also be getting some revisions and then, hopefully, I will be able to start writing the story with renewed confidence.

 _Disclaimer: {_ **One Piece** _, the world, and its characters, belong to Oda. OCs and original locations belong to me.}_

* * *

2\. The Pirate

 _annoyance: (n.) the feeling, or state, of irritation, inevitably resulting in some form of dissatisfaction_

If there were one thing I remembered upon taking note of whilst writing this portion of her life, it would be her anger towards these opening few instances of interactions. One way or another, she was an opinionated child, easily annoyed with a plethora of things – especially herself and her behavior. Yet, this portion of her life seems to hold a great deal of importance to her story, as well as her existence in totality, which is why – despite her pleas – I continued to push for it to be included.

And so, here, the story begins . . .

* * *

The island was small. That was certainly easy to ascertain from the number of towns present on the isle: two. All other features topographically present were some trees, typically of the pine and oak varieties, scattered in small clusters. The native flowers appeared to be a sprinkling of honey cups and daisies with the ever-coexisting weeds – dandelions – to bolster the yellow tones present amidst the greens.

The foundation of the town was built upon an interlocking system of streets and bridges. These rectangular paths connected low-populated areas with the busier innermost parts of the town, while also branching into the areas dedicated to agricultural produce, a small mining area, a large delta from the river and the beach. The routes were listed and simplified for ease of learning to get from to and fro.

The people were what one could probably describe as being pleasant, albeit polite when spoken to. What was said behind closed doors was probably an entirely different matter altogether. Mundanity was accustomed, and change, undesired. Expectations were known, assumptions made, and the wheels of time continued to turn in this pattern society calls "life."

It was the picturesque visage of normalcy. Things were imperfectly perfect. It was all she ever knew, this island she was so well-accustomed with: The Insula Tranquillita Animus, or the Island of Peace in basic nomenclature. The naming of the island was not random, but not quite officiated either. Some believed that the it eventually came to be accepted as the peaceful isle, but others . . . well, there were history novels in those cases.

Despite its size, its people and its idealistic beauty, not all was as it seemed. Just as there is a dark side to the moon, a ravine for every mountain, a night for every day, even this heavenly isle shared its sinister streak. Yes, even the Marines, in their suffocating and orderly justice-keeping ways, found solace on this isle. While many kept their eyes down and ears closed, adhering to the idea that "Silence is golden," others inwardly stuffed a great deal of ire towards the people in white coats, armed and trained in heavy artillery.

The ways of the law – the just – and the ways of the rebellious and mischievous clashed, not in battle, but in a silent war of behavior and acceptance – or the lack thereof.

Just as the rest of the world held its breath in rapture and in fear towards the ways of the wicked and the ways of the dignified, so too did the island in which the heroine of this story lived.

Watching.

Waiting.

Praying.

Drifting.

 _Dreaming_.

* * *

There was an ebony raven perched upon her singular, pearl-colored windowsill that morning. She'd woken up to the subtle, habitual rustling of feathers for a being fluent in aviation; however, the act of awaking to those sounds was a first for her. She noted that the sun was certainly higher than she was used to when she awoke, that much she could ascertain from its locale in the sky.

Unfortunately for her sake, that meant she was late. Another unexpected first to check off the non-existent bucket list of things she preferred not to have to experience on a given day.

She was truly a girl of habit and preferred to stay on track.

She picked herself up from the bed, covers strewn haphazardly upon the bed and floor. Then she groaned. The slight mid-morning chill crept upon her now-revealed skin, reminding her of how much she detested being cold. Dismissing the mess of her bed, she started to rub her arms in any attempt to ameliorate her status – a large wave of goosebumps decorating her pale skin. Her long hair tickling her shaking skin all the while. Her bed, on the other hand, that was one thing she'd avoid rectifying for the day. No use anguishing over an unmade bed when time was fleeting.

Moving to her dresser quickly, she pulled open the drawers, opting for a usual favorite of hers: tight obsidian jeans, with a lighter black t-shirt. Black was simple, something she typically favored. It held in warmth, a constant desire of hers, and prevented as large an appearance of staining. Sillier expectations of clothing, but things she hoped for nonetheless. After tying her combat boots up, and throwing her hair into a sloppily-done, yet what she considered to be an acceptable braid, – though she truly regretted having to lose the extra warmth of her long hair on her back – she proceeded to move down the stairs into the kitchen.

Her home was what anyone would describe as simple, yet sufficient – a common motif of hers. Two levels: three rooms on the upper floor paralleling the three on the lower, a simple staircase connecting the two. Most of the rooms were closed off, having been left unused for years. In fact, the entire upper level was almost entirely neglected – save for her bedroom.

As she came into the opening of the smaller, sunlit room, with tan, oak-wooded cabinets and drawers, covered by a faux-granite surface and an island of almost the same look, Rosalia could hear a slight sizzling coming from the stove.

"You've been writing again, I see," a tenor, lower registered voice said aloud, nearby where she was standing.

Rosalia looked over at the voice in surprise, not completely understanding the gist of what was being said. The man connected to the voice she heard gestured to her arm. As a left-handed individual, Rosalia was almost always seen with a bizarrely-patterned string of words ranging from her left wrist to the elbow, typically the underside of the arm. Writing any other way would have been considered an uncomfortable outrage, yet the markings made her look like she'd gone for an exotically bad tattoo job.

A small laugh rang out from her lips, conveying her dismay at the predicament her arm found itself in.

"Never ends, Red. You know I can't help it," she replied simply, her voice coming across as a slight whine, a pout notably resting on her lips. He just shook his head, knowing her complacent nature. The whine might have indicated annoyance at his comment, but he knew she personally didn't care what state her arm was in.

Red, a man only known by this name to her, was a family friend, having been well-acquainted with Rosalia since she was a small toddler. He stood at a decent six feet five inches, with a head of mousy-brown hair, slightly gelled back. She considered him to be attractive, in a simplistic way. No features were considered a stand-out in comparison to other individuals, yet the natural, woodsy character he presented was certainly a desirable package. Compared to her short stature, Rosalia always considered Red to be a rather large, beastly man. It made her envious that he could stand above most without having to crane his neck. Along with his muscular bone and facial structure, it was obvious Red was a force to be reckoned with – only if the situation warranted it. However, after many years, she'd concluded that his bark was almost entirely worse than his bite. He had somehow managed to put up with her after all.

"You are certainly impatient. You never wait for the ink to dry, Rose."

She scoffed, knowing ultimately that what was said was nothing short from the truth. "What's worse is that I went to bed like that. I didn't even check to see if I left any prints on the sheets." Crossing her arms in annoyance, and possibly a deliberate way to cover the inking, Rosalia made her way over the one of the seats in front of the island.

He started laughing, turning back to the stove to check on the condition of his meal. "Better the sheets than your desk! You're quite possibly one of the most ridiculous people I know. Unreal."

"I'm one of the few people you know, and it could have easily been worse." She side-eyed him while perching her chin upon her right hand. She wasn't in the mood for the mockery. She knew almost immediately he was referencing the time the ink splattered all over her desk, making it look like a squid had held her quill hostage solely to practice its handwriting.

Acknowledging the sound she heard upon initially walking into the kitchen, Rosalia inquired curiously, "I take it you haven't eaten, then?"

"Unfortunately, not yet despite the complaints from my eager stomach. I was waiting for you, but a certain individual felt the need to sleep in." He looked pointedly at her. She assumed that he must have just recently turned the stove on. Turning back to the pan, Red began to stir the eggs, moving into what looked to be the motion for scrambling.

"You don't have to wait around for me," she mumbled, feeling a bit embarrassed that at her age, he continued to feel the need to delay his daily agenda for her simply to share a meal together.

Red plated the scrambled eggs, salting them and sprinkling an almost nonexistent pinch of pepper upon the pale, yellow puffs. How he could eat them scrambled was beyond her. Once he finished preparing his meal to meet his standards, Red turned towards her. He crossed his arms. What Rosalia wouldn't openly admit that the two of them knew rather well was her great disdain for eating. They both knew she'd skip out on a meal if she had the chance to. When Red wasn't around, meals were the last priority. She'd prefer to maximize on her sleep, or even progress in her writings, as opposed to making time to satiate her body's needs.

Realizing he was giving her "the look," Rosalia moved closer to Red. She grabbed a few pieces of bread, having previously been sliced from the loaf. Taking a stick of butter, she then proceeded to place both the bread and butter into the pan, toasting them. While waiting for her bread to become her 'Rosalia-specific' golden-brown, she decided she'd finalize the ensemble with a dazzling colorful blueberry jam.

"Blueberry?" Rosalia gave him another pointed look, questioning when he might decide to cease from mocking her. "I know you know that you hate blueberries." She'd grown up to be single-handedly one of the pickiest eaters in his lifetime. Fruits were under the harshest criticisms, vegetables the next to be under fire. She almost entirely absconded from anything green, unless they were seasoned to her liking. "Ridiculous," he added, realizing how unbelievable she could be at times.

She sighed. "'Hate' is a strong word. I'd say that I more or less 'strongly dislike' most fruits. However, I felt the need to change it up today. I don't know; I felt bad. One of the kids down the street gave me three jars of jam, all of which are made from fruits I'm opposed to eating."

He squinted his eyes. "I can't believe you forced some poor kid to give you jam. What kind of con-game did you play this time?" Knowing her, she'd probably been bored wandering around town and forced some child into a ridiculously difficult board game only she knew how to play – and cheat in.

Rosalia whipped around. "Shut up! I did not! I'll have you know that his mother needed assistance with some of the fabrics she was working on, and rather than let them fall onto the dirty walkway, I offered to carry some. In thanks, her son graciously offered me some jam." She gave him a dirty look, arms seeming to be almost permanently crossed. "I am not ridiculous. And I didn't con that child. Who do you possibly think I am?"

"Special? Problematic? A game-player? A cheater? Let's see - the list goes on. . ."

"Red," she almost growled out, the tips of her ears slowly becoming increasingly more maroon in shade.

He laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, ultimately opting to angle them behind his head in a comfortable position. The motion granted him better accessibility to the wall clock. He realized that she really was later than usual. She'd have been back by now, several books in tow from the marketplace in the center of town. "What were you reading that threw your entire day off this much?" It must have been an immersive read to have changed her typical behavior this badly.

"Some book referencing our favorite island residents in the history of residents, the Marines," Rosalia stated quietly, embarrassed about her selection of reading from the night before.

Red lowered his arms and cocked his head to the left, entirely questioning whether this small child next to him was, in fact, the same Rosalia he'd seen just yesterday. "You, uh, you do realize you're not exactly a fan of the Marines, yeah?" He asked awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck in confusion.

She nodded, plucking the toast from the pan. Moving to the other side of the counter, she began to cover a slice with the jam. "It was about the governmental justice system. I just thought maybe I'd find something – anything – worthwhile in there." She'd been hopeful – a rarity. It was hard to truly find the positives in a group of individuals determined to make the concept of freedom an impossibility. Not that she'd voice it aloud to anyone outside of Red – and perhaps her boss.

A pause. Rosalia was looking off into the distance of the kitchen, seemingly sinking further and further into her thoughts. When he realized she wasn't going to continue, falling deeper into this thought-provoking abyss known as her mind, he asked, "I take it you didn't?"

It took her a moment before she acknowledged his question. A sigh escapes her, a sign she was back to reality. "Up until this point, I have yet to."

"What was it discussing?"

She paused, trying to recollect any of her thoughts concerning the book. Looking him in the eye, Rosalia made a quizzical face. "Well, the inception of the organization . . . ranking systems. Other boring things." She glanced at Red. "Certainly not a book you would have liked. Simply the doldrums of deciding to enact justice upon the lowly."

It was then that it seemed she finally realized that a certain object sat on the wall in the kitchen. One that ticks and chimes and tells a good deal about the location of the sun throughout the day. Rosalia saw the _clock_. She dropped the knife, a slightly loud ding made when it reached the alternating gray tiles of the floor. "Red! I'm seriously late. I won't even get to the marketplace, if not work on time at this point!" After reaching to the floor in exasperation, she turned on her heel to face him again. "Why on earth didn't you wake me?!"

He held his hands up in surrender for what she noted to be the second time that day. "Sorry, sorry, Madame. I was doing a bit of light reading myself." She didn't find the comment funny. "All right, all right. _Relax_. You've never been late before, and you've worked there for years. You could practically consider yourself 'grand-fathered' into at least one pass or two if you do show up to work late. The old man probably won't mind . . . Probably." The last word hinted at how unexpected the outcome could be. Rosalia wasn't having it.

"So good to hear that my possible crucifixion is something akin to a joke to you," she grunted out. Rosalia aggressively scarfed down the piece of toast fully dressed in jam and butter, giving the plate a slight shove in Red's direction. Running back up the stairs, she grabbed her black leather bag hanging by her desk, and a light, zip-up gray jacket. She then dashed back into the kitchen, waved to Red and shouted out a mildly breathless, "See you later!"

He shook his head, questioning where she came from. The girl was a nut. One second, she's throwing things at him, and the next, she's waving to him like all is well.

"She worries far too much."

* * *

Rosalia had maintained that sprinting run of hers until she passed by one of the main streets. Luckily for her, from the area around her house to the street, the journey was almost entirely unpopulated, with only the woods and grass to keep her company. Thus, she only had to follow one of the interlocking paths into the larger, more heavily used ones. However, as soon as she broke free from the simple peace that encompassed where she lived, she realized far too late that running at an uncomfortably quick speed probably wasn't going to benefit her as the areas became increasingly crowded. The last thing she needed was to – _**smack!**_

Rosalia unfortunately rammed into someone and landed, promptly, on the ground. "Ugh . . . It is so not my day today!" She muttered in disdain, not entirely coming to terms yet with the fact she had slammed into an _individual_ and not a rock-solid pole. After grumbling for a few seconds, she picked herself up, and dusted off her pants, an attempt to embarrass herself no longer. A book and a few pieces of scrap paper had disgracefully fallen out of her bag and were now strewn about the ground around her to her dismay. Rosalia gingerly began to pick up the book, cradling it like it were broken and beaten child. The papers were another story: they were soiled, the grass still retaining the remains of the morning's dew. Practically unusable in the state they were in at that moment.

She cringed in defeat. A poor waste to both herself and the universe. It seemed the trees were watching her in ire. She could only imagine how painful it must have looked to see their brethren chopped and casted into thin forms, only to be strewn into soggy messes of quickly becoming stained-white upon the ground. She was despicable.

A voice interrupted her onset disparaging attitude towards her negligent care of her very-valued papers. The poor things. "Where are ya off to at this point, Miss Cass? You have work today?"

She bit the inside of her lip, immediately recognizing the voice of the being she'd aggressively smacked into. Only one person would feel the need to continue to reference her so unnecessarily formally. "Hi . . . Luke. Yeah, I, uh, have work. I'm, well, as you can see from my fast pace, I'm running a bit late," she replied sheepishly. He was the absolute _last_ person Rosalia wanted to even talk to today, let alone run into.

Not that she didn't 'like' the child. Really and truly compared to the menagerie of individuals she'd ended up meeting over the years, she didn't mind Luke. He was a jovial soul, albeit a blockhead. His intentions were pure, and his goals direct. He was a being despite his inability to reflect the same interests as her.

You see, Luke and Rosalia almost entirely demonstrated the 'different strokes for different folks' mindset. She'd decided to devote her life to books, relics, history, languages, whilst Luke . . . Luke devoted his existence to becoming and serving as a Marine. He'd just recently been promoted to her utter chagrin. He'd become a lieutenant commander, and at his age, was doing rather well for himself, having been able to shine above his peers.

They'd been closer when they were younger, playing strategy games, such as chess, and shogi – a personal favorite of hers, as well as pretending to attack Red when feeling particularly spiteful to their elders. For Rosalia, the times of rebellion and plotting were some of her most happily reflected upon moments of her life. Unfortunately, as he aged, Luke became what one could consider to be the 'poster child', abandoning the era of childhood fun and instead, accepting and embracing the rules, whereas Rosalia acted as the deviant – the foil. With his copper, flyaway hair and freckled face, he seemed to fit the description of a spunky, wild boy, a look that almost entirely encompassed his passion present when they used to play together. However, as he grew up, his face grew as well, becoming more mature, having gained a few small scars due to the training from the Marines. A particularly nasty one rested underneath his left eye, laying horizontally about several inches long and almost reaching his nose. As with most individuals, as the years begin to tack on to a person, so too does the personality seem to change, yet, ironically, he still valued her as one of his closest friends – albeit one far outside of the Marines.

During instances like these, however, he was ultimately too talkative and lethargic for her liking. That easygoing and relaxed persona was only an occasional desire for her, but at this very second, Luke would have been more beneficial to her anywhere else in the universe.

"Why ya running around like a crazy woman? Are you _that_ late?" He managed to bother her more with the emphasis in his wording. It drove her crazy. She had never, _never_ been this late in her life. You'd think just one time would be excusable, but _no_ even the Marines were on her case. If she had more time to reflect on the conversation, she'd have been even more spiteful towards all who referenced her delay that morning. It was one off day, for goodness' sake.

Luke continued, completely daft to the mild breakdown Rosalia was having in front of him, "That's not like you! I usually would have greeted you at the marketplace by this point." Smiling, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, seemingly desiring to console her for hitting him square in the chest with her poor face.

He wasn't wrong. She'd loved the marketplace ever since she was old enough to walk there and purchase things. The place was almost always bustling. It was there that any and everyone who knew anyone could interact in peaceful and interesting discourses. Where sales were made, and business transactions were acted upon. Where money was not simply something to be counted, but an object of whimsical opportunity. It was a darned shame she couldn't go that morning.

". . . I was sleeping," she muttered dejectedly, truly beginning to feel quite guilty, that or the impact of his chest finally registered painfully in her face. At this point, she felt she should have been fired. "I really, really have to go, Luke."

He nodded. His tousled red locks mimicked the up and down motion of his head. His smile had diminished into a perpetual smirk – a signature characteristic of his. "I'll probably stop in and visit you later. Are you the only one working today?"

Rosalia seemed to feel a vein being to dangerously pop in the upper left corner of her forehead. "Mh-hmm. That's why I'm dead if I'm late," she managed to say, becoming more perturbed by each question.

He chuckled, enjoying her ever-sarcastic, 'end of the universe as we know it' attitude she seemed to take whenever she was feeling particularly stressed. However, after a moment, he became more serious in his tone, "Okay, okay. I promise I won't bother you until you're finally there. Just make sure to be safe."

She glanced at him in surprise and annoyance. When was he going to stop with the constant need to keep the conversation alive? Late meant _late_ for crying out loud! Red hadn't seemed too worried when she saw him in the kitchen earlier, yet her she was racing against an unbelievably daunting internal clock. On what she expected to be her last nerves, she snapped, "What do you mean?"

Luke looked down at her, hand still resting on her shoulder – to her utter dismay. Another individual who calmly towered over her – yet another sore spot in their relationship. "I'm not sure. Something felt off. The men are getting a weird vibe." He finally removed his hand from her and shrugged. "I'm thinking it could be the weather."

They both looked up, trying to justify the statement. However, as soon as she saw the sky above her, she wanted to aggressively whack Luke. Cyan blue skies without a nefarious gray cloud in sight weren't exactly a person's typical definition of catastrophe.

Rolling her eyes into what could have been the back of her head, she sarcastically replied, "I'll, uh, keep it in mind. Thanks." She ran away, ignoring her previous strategy for arriving to work. She'd already managed to smack into one person today. If she somehow found a way to knock into another one, it wouldn't have surprised her in the slightest. Luck had proven to not be on her side. A commonality as of late.

After a bit of time went by, consisting of multiple instances of dodging other people, alternating routes to ultimately find the path of least resistance, and perhaps looking like an idiot whilst doing so, Rosalia made it to the restaurant she worked at. As she entered through the beaten-down front doors, she realized quite quickly that it was going to be a rough shift for several hours, especially based on the facial expression she saw on her employer.

She was late. That much was for certain. How late?

A blessed fifteen minutes too late. A wonderful little clock behind the bar illustrated that point a bit too clearly. There was no reading between the lines on this one.

She was screwed.

"Oh, joyous days upon me. Oh, Luke, how I can't stand you and your obnoxiously perky and overeager behavior."

* * *

Unbeknownst to both Rosalia and Luke, the negative premonitions of the rest of the Marines were surprising and uncharacteristically spot on. Viewed subtly on the rims of the horizon, slowly approaching the center of the village, weaving amongst the interlocking pathways, a traveling outsider with a conspicuously bright orange cowboy hat came ever closer.

* * *

A/N: This is the officially new, almost entirely different first chapter. I've been working on it for quite some time. It hasn't been easy, basically adding in OCs while also depicting them in ways that could fit into the story.

Please do review, simply to make sure I am on track, or if you guys liked/disliked/need more of certain things! I appreciate it!


	3. The Ace

It's so wild writing this story and realizing that it's probably going to be totally different than the former version. It's also super nice to see it's gradually gaining some views. That's always a plus.

Thank you all for reading. Hopefully, I can slowly have the chapters begin to build up the story from here.

Happy reading! And please, leave any responses, if necessary!

 _Disclaimer: {_ **One Piece** _, the world, and its characters, belong to Oda. I've simply created my own small twists and woven them into the story. OCs belong to me.}_

* * *

3\. The Ace

 _tardiness: (n.) the quality of being late_

"You're late."

Rosalia cringed, the disdain undeniably noticeable in his tone. She nodded. As soon as she had entered through the doorway and realized how tense the atmosphere was in the bar, she'd become increasingly more enraptured by the floor; the rich, dogwood floorboards were simple, yet the markings on the wood could be described as a earthy, rustic kind of beautiful.

"You're never late." Another cringe. Each piece of wood was different. She felt it was an embodiment of a characteristic well-applied to people – that no two individuals are the same. Even the nails holding the boards in place seemed to appear as having been varied across the arrays of boards.

"Rosalia," the tone was less harsh this time, beckoning her to raise her eyes from the floor. "I'm not going to eat you." The voice seemed to think it needed to add more. "There are more interesting things to analyze than the floorboards!"

She grimaced. Slowly lifting her head, Rosalia's eyes met the eyes of her employer. An elderly man, closer to his seventies, though he'd never admit he was beginning to get on in years, met her gaze. Otto Ro, that was his name, was one of the most intriguing men she'd met on the island – she'd decided that early on. He took her in when she was thirteen in a state of teenage rebellion. Most of the other areas in the fellow mercantile shops were against hiring her as she should have been continuing her classes. However, Otto was a peculiar man, and when he got wind of a small girl looking for work to occupy herself, he hired her on the spot, even if she could only work after her classes were over. At a bar, the later the shift, the better the crowd.

"I woke up late, Ro," she bowed her head slightly. "I'm sorry. I ran here as fast as I could, but there were some delays."

He squinted his eyes, biting his lip in thought. It only lasted a minute before he shrugged. "Lucky for you, we only had three customers so far, all of whom only wanted a late breakfast."

Rosalia smiled. All was forgiven. She ran to the back of the main counter, stuck her bookbag into a small nook underneath the back counter, threw on her apron, and began to spruce up the area, tidying the bottles, refreshing the ice and dusting off said counters. Thankfully for her, whenever she closed for the night, she covered a lot of her soon-to-be morning tasks, ultimately minimizing the amount she would have to do when she came in the next day. Thus, even late, it took not even ten minutes to have the bar looking decent – if she did say so herself.

Otto came around and gave her a pat on the back. "And that, Rose, is why I hired you." He turned from her, heading into the back of the kitchen, awaiting any orders she might eventually throw at him from possible customers.

They made an interesting pair, the young girl and the older man, but in their age differences, they seemed to acknowledge the other's abilities. It all melded together rather well.

As she began to analyze the bottles, noting which would need refilling, or replacing, and those that did not sell as well, Rosalia heard the door open. Glancing at the clock, she decided it wasn't the weirdest time in the world to have a visitor. In fact, she had a strong suspicion of who was possibly walking through the door.

She turned around, eager to see her regular.

But it wasn't him. No, it most decidedly was not.

It was a young man. That she could easily spot off the bat. He had a tall, muscular stature, with a gait she could only imagine belonging to someone with a great deal of confidence. His longer, dark black hair curled at the ends; however, most of his head was occupied by his unnaturally bright orange cowboy hat.

He plopped himself lazily at the counter, a few seats down from where she had been standing, fiddling with a spoon. Sighing, he perched his head up on his palm, eyes half-lidded, as if he was falling asleep.

Rosalia gulped. However, she was used to this: visiting pirates. They were in their own definition of the word, 'regulars' of sorts, even if it was always a different pirate crew. Yet, today was different, a pattern seemingly woven into her normalcy. It was a lone pirate coming in, a rarity of sorts.

She made her way over, slipping the spoon into one of her pockets. Flattening her apron to calm the slight nerves she had, Rosalia decided it could have been a worse guest. "What can I do for you today?"

His tired eyes met her mildly shocked ones. "Information."

Rosalia huffed, the request totally not to her liking. She could feel her smile slowly morph itself into a frown. "Let's try this again, shall we? You order the alcohol, I go and give you said food or alcohol. I'm happy, you're happy. It's a win-win." She forced herself to smile. "What can I get for you?"

He sits up, still in a comfortably, slouched position. "I didn't come here to drink or eat."

"Well, now. I can give you information. Here's a bit: this is a bar. Fun fact, we serve food and drinks here. You buy, I give. It's an act of equivalent exchange."

He brought his hand up to his face, eyebrows arched in thought. "What can I exchange for information?"

Rosalia almost growled in annoyance. She was a simple bartender. No more, no less. "Listen – I can't help you. You're wasting my time, but even more so, you're wasting your own. Ask around elsewhere." She turned around, back facing him and began to organize the utensils. Anything to make it look like she was working.

Unfortunately, he hadn't moved. She hadn't heard a single noise from where he was sitting, like he was camping out for the day. She groaned, a bit too loudly, but in her opinion, it didn't matter. This wasn't how she expected her day to go.

After a short while, a few more customers came in, some friends of Red, others, fellow villagers opting for some food out.

However, it was a specific few customers who approached, two men, who opted to sit directly in front of where Rosalia was standing. These were in a league of their own: her father's men. "Your hair has gotten longer, Miss Cass," Sigmund, one of the lieutenants in the Marines, mused. "I can't remember it having been this long since I've known you."

Rosalia smiled, leaning over the counter. "I'd love to say I grew it out per your request, but then, well, I'd be lying, Lieutenant." He smirked. "What can I get you two today?"

"Sake!" They simultaneously called out, causing Rosalia to produce a light giggle. She nodded and proceeded to fix their drinks for them. They weren't supposed to be out drinking at this hour, but knowing how calm the island was as of late, there wasn't nearly as much harm in letting them enjoy themselves.

"Here you are." She placed two large glasses in front of both men, reveling in the satisfaction they had for their drinks.

After clinking their glasses together and taking a rather decent gulp of their drinks, Sigmund decided to speak to her. "You met this guy yet?" He asked, pointing to his fellow Navy-man.

"Can't say I have," Rosalia remarked, playing with her braid. A few strands were slowly coming loose.

He grinned, pleased to be sharing a new piece of news. "He's the latest lieutenant in the force – just promoted!"

Rosalia rolled her eyes. News or not, anything related to the Marines seemed to follow the same mundane pattern: a need for justice leading to enlistment, which, in-turn, leads to an abhorrent desire to squash the rising tide of piracy, leading to more hard-work, and then, eventually, a promotion. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Luckily for her, she'd been taken in by her father after any of that nonsense had ensued.

"Lieutenant got a name, Sigmund?" She drawled out, slightly miffed he hadn't stated anything related to the man himself.

"Oh, oh yeah! This is Len. He's slowly started to climb the ranks, like your buddy, Luke," Sigmund remarked loudly, to her embarrassment.

"Congratulations. I can only imagine it's a gratuitous feeling to be recognized by my father," she mumbled out, respectfully having played her part in the conversation. After a few moments, she made a grab for the sake bottle, realizing the two were almost finished. She began to refill their glasses when she saw Sigmund begin to look around the room.

After having done almost a complete one-hundred and eighty degrees turn from his seat to the right, Sigmund turned in the other direction, this time to the left, and glanced across the counter directly at the pirate. "Oi, oi, oi, Rosalia! What's one of those doing here?"

Rosalia, having watched his entire thought process unfold at the moment, understood fully well who the object of his questioning was about, and gave an obviously uncaring shrug. "He's just traveling, Lieutenant."

He gave her a stern glare. His entire demeanor had seemed to change from the minute his eyes came across the pirate. "Just because you value your books over the justice system, you are not granted the right to ignore the rules and uninform those who protect the peace and justice of an area. That pirate right there," he pointed over rudely, his fellow unit member also following the direction of his point, "is what anyone would consider to be a problem, don't you agree?"

Slightly rolling her shoulders, Rosalia returned the negative look he was giving her. "It's Otto's motto, not mine, but a motto nonetheless: 'All customers, young, old, brazen, bold, serene, irate, Marine, Pirate, they are welcomed here with an ode to Otto Ro's Bar, my humble abode.'" She gave Sigmund a mischievous smile. "He's done no harm, so leave him be."

She could see Otto in her peripheral line of sight nodding his head, only possible due to the window view to the kitchen.

Sigmund stood up, clearly annoyed at her defiance. His aggressive movement jostled the counter, causing one of the glasses to knock over and spill. Naturally, she'd be the one in charge of cleaning it up afterwards. "You were raised better than this, Miss Cass." She began to twirl her braid again, unfazed by the words. "Your father will be getting an interesting message today, that's for sure."

He and his fellow unit member turned on their heels, clearly disgusted by the equitable service she offered both them and the pirate, though in her defense, the mystery man had yet to order. Not that they would have cared if she'd disclosed that bit of information to them.

Rolling her eyes, she proceeded to clean up the glasses on the counter. At least the smell was fitting of the bar. Many a night, she came home smelling of booze. She'd accepted it that way, even though at this hour, the fact anyone had even spilled alcohol was the last thing she'd expected.

"You guys treat your customers the same?"

Rosalia glanced over at the mystery man, lightly scrubbing the previously clean counters. "I suppose so."

He nodded. "Your last name's Cass?"

Rosalia stopped moving. She'd been oblivious to the fact that the lazy pirate still had fully functioning ears. "Yes."

"Your father is a Marine."

She blinked. "You know him?" She asked, not entirely following how his previous inquiries for information were of any importance to her, or her relation to her father.

" _Of_ him," he chuckled softly. "Fiery temper when provoked. Large amounts of negativity towards pirates. Typical Marine song and dance." He removed his hat placing it on the counter, leaving his hand to rest near it. "I guess I'm just intrigued as to why you could be related to one and yet willingly provide service to a pirate."

She felt a tickle slowly emerge at the back of her throat. Coughing, she turned away from him. Rosalia knew she had next-to-no reason to even tell him anything, so she decided to play it cool.

"I just don't agree with the way they think. That's all."

He turned and gave Rosalia a big smile. "The name's Ace. Portgas D. Ace," he paused, waiting for her to recognize the name. When her eyes widened a bit, he continued, "I'd like to have what those two guys were drinking, if you don't mind?"

She knew that name. Of c _ourse_ she recognized that name. He'd been in the papers quite often: having been the captain of the Spade Pirates to joining Whitebeard's Crew. He was a twenty-year-old legend in the eyes of the media, and another failed child to the Marines.

And she'd somehow managed to turn away to Marines to promptly arresting him. She started to giggle. Ace gave her a questioning glance. She started to giggle more. Once her shoulders stopped shaking out of humor, Rosalia calmed herself just enough to utter out, "Only I could possibly let one of Whitebeard's crewmembers avoid legitimate confrontation with the Marines. My deplorable luck has provided you with good fortune."

She poured him a drink. The first of what would be many.

* * *

She'd accidentally gotten him drunk.

In her defense, after he asked for the glass to be refilled for the third time, Rosalia was completely neglectful of the drink per hour ratio, simply attempting to maintain his happiness – as a customer of course.

He'd proven to be more enjoyable than any guest she'd ever had at the bar, even her aforementioned regular, a certain Albert. While the gangly, blond middle-aged man usually provided her with some of the most easy-going sarcastic wit she could have imagined, Ace was on his own tier of enjoyable. From the way he held himself, to the way he analyzed specific aspects of their conversation, she found him to be an unnaturally euphoric source for entertainment. Especially for a pirate.

Not that they had talked about anything relating to them as people. He'd first asked her about the weather – she liked when it snowed. She asked him about how he got to the island – a small boat he commandeered, bestowed the name 'Striker' by a certain pirate. He asked her what she liked to drink – she wasn't a fan. She asked him what his favorite color was – he seemed to toy with the idea of it probably being orange. They continued to play around with certain, simple, sometimes silly questions. It was less of an inquiry and more of a dance with words, Rosalia decided.

She didn't realize how badly she wanted to continue to talk more.

However, her negligence led to an extremely entertaining and _drunk_ pirate. She couldn't believe how many glasses he'd had, moving up from the sake to the harder liquor, all the while, still maintaining an intelligible conversation.

She only noticed he'd been completely wasted when she attempted to prod him to continue to speak to her, and his arm had fallen limply to his side. He was out cold. Stone cold.

Rosalia bit her lip. Around this time, more of the townspeople would be coming in for some food and drink. She couldn't just leave a drunken pirate to waste on _counter_. Oh, she most certainly could not! Unfortunately, she was assigned to this spot until late, and due to her tardiness in the morning, Rosalia had planned to make it up to Otto by staying after her usual time.

She continued to prod at Ace, hoping that he'd at least move to her pushing and poking. After a few moments, with an annoyed glance, Rosalia decided to move him – heavy as he was – to the edge of the counter, closer to where she was usually stationed. At least he would no longer act as a buoy sandwiched in-between the two end-banks of the counter. He was unbelievably heavier than Rosalia would have liked to believe, but she accounted a lot of the excess mass due to the alcohol consumption, and the strain, that could be due to her weaker, more suited to book-holding, arms.

Rosalia huffed, when she set him down, allowing her muscles to calm down after that ridiculously small bit of exertion. She walked over to his small mass of glasses, picked them up and then made her way over to the sink to wash them. As customers continued to roll in, a steadier stream this time, she found herself immersed into work. Decidedly too immersed. She'd failed to see Luke walk in. She'd also failed to see him make a bee-line directly for Ace.

While she quickly scribbled down the orders of the latest table onto the notepad in her messy scrawl, Rosalia couldn't help but overhear a large set of gasps coming from the opposing end of the restaurant – the bar.

She quickly turned her head, interested in the developing situation. It was not unusual for some of the men and women to get into scuffles over the card games they would bring to play, or squabbles over a winner and loser to a specific, personalized bet. She liked to watch who the aggressors usually were in a situation, so she could prepare herself the next time they came in.

However, what she saw threw her into a stunned silence.

Luke. He'd decided to add his own sprinkling of disaster to her day: he'd picked up Ace's sleeping form, gripping his left-shoulder tightly. The positioning was very awkward. It was clear to see by the way Luke held Ace that their body sizes were, indeed, different. Ace was far more built in his upper half, while Luke retained his childish and gangly stature. That being said, it was obvious to see what the situation was slowly morphing into: Luke formed a fist with his left-hand, signaling to Rosalia that he was about to give Ace a rather aggressive left-hook to the face.

She was going to call out – she really wanted to. But she couldn't seem to bring herself to do anything beyond witness her newfound drunken pirate receive a clean, blunt punch to the face.

Ace flinched awake, a regrettably honest indication that he was in pain. A small drip of blood had begun to flow from his lower lip. As he slowly came-to, Ace looked out into the crowd, unintentionally stumbling upon her shocked, saucer-eyes. With a small smile, he mouthed, "It's okay; I'm okay."

Ace looked back at his opponent, the smile still resting on his face.

Rosalia groaned louder than she normally would.

This was a fight.

They had gotten themselves a fight.


	4. The Beard

I've gotten quite a bit of attention for this story, and it makes me super pleased to be back at it with a _One Piece_ story that I can feel proud of for writing. Thank you, guys, so far for the reviews, favorites and follows. For what's only been a prologue and two chapters, it means a lot.

This is the fourth chapter! I hope you all enjoy how this story is slowly coming along. Any advice, criticism, praise and so forth is welcome, so please, please, please review!

As a side note: This will probably be my last update for a little while. Classes are starting up again, so juggling everything on top of writing will probably be difficult. Also, sorry if Blackbeard's bit of characterization seems a bit inaccurate, or perhaps not as most people would initially have him enter their story line. I feel that he'd have slowly devolved into the person he is rather than entirely be as twisted as he was.

 _Disclaimer: {_ **One Piece** _, the world, and its characters, belong to Oda. OCs belong to me. Definitions typically belong to the Webster online dictionary, though at this point, I've been using fairly self-explanatory vernacular.}_

* * *

4\. The Beard

 _commander: (n.) a person in authority, especially over a body of troops_ Word

To put it simply: Drunk or not, Ace deserved his position as the Second-Division Commander of Whitebeard's crew.

He was . . . well, he iswas brilliant. Rosalia had certainly imagined that Ace would lose his lackadaisical outward appearance and shift into that of a pirate, or, at the very least, _her_ perception of a pirate: ruthless, devious and aggressive. However, he was none of that. He seemed to maintain that inner tranquility he had even when being provoked by the Marines from earlier.

Luke, having always favored his left-hook, especially since he was a child, continued to throw punches, swinging, almost willy-nilly, to attempt to hit Ace again. Shockingly, his hits never made contact. Ace was always faster, two-steps ahead, blocking, dodging, smiling.

What stuck with Rosalia the most was the smile. _That_ smile. It was euphoric, perpetual – it was nothing she'd seen before in that contextfelt before.

The drunkards who decided to bolster their already inflated egos after several servings of booze were always frowning when they got into fights, swearing something awful and then eventually falling over, the alcohol having consumed the entirety of their energy. However, Ace was smiling – an unbelievably large, jovial smile – as if he was having the time of his life.

She huffed aloud, causing a couple heads to slightly turn in her direction. Rosalia could feel the cherry tinge beginning to spread across her face. She just couldn't help herself. He made fighting look . . . fun. And for some reason, her muscles seemed to be tingling something awful, as though at any moment she would jump right in.

Well, that was until a deep, mildly annoyed sounding voice broke her from her thoughts. "Uh, miss?"

Rosalia looked over her shoulder. A middle-agedyoung man, who looked suspiciously like one of the butchers from the deli a few shops down, who had also been watching the fight. He had turned his attention to her. Unbeknownst to her, her excited shaking had been extremely noticeable to those in the nearest vicinityshe'd been noticeably shaking in excitement. "Yes?" She asked, slightly confused as to why he was speaking to her.

He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at her. "You're a mMarine's kid, aren't you? That big shot's daughter?"

Rosalia nodded. She knew where his line of thought was ultimately going.

"Aren't you supposed to help keep the peace?" He scowled, arms crossed. "You're watching a fight without lifting a muscle. It's distasteful." He spat at the ground.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not a Marine, bucko." She smirked when she saw he seemed to begin to fume at the sass she'd given him. "I'd never want to be either. Go bother someone else." Rosalia pointed to the door.

"Children shouldn't be allowed to speak to their elders in that way. You've gone too long without being reprimanded." He grabbed what appeared to have been a bottle of rum, and walked towards the door.

"Don't let it hit you on the way out!" She called, having enjoyed watching him squirm at her obvious disdain for the 'Keepers of Justice.' Rosalia couldn't care less at that very instance. Though it did peeve her a bit to hear him treat her like a child. The bar was positively thriving with all the attention the fight was garnering. People were flocking into the dimly lit room, all based upon the pretense that there was a lone solo pirate making a mockery out of a marine.

She couldn't help but feel giddypositive, save for the fact that she was watching someone she considered close to her being beat by the Marines greatest nemesis: pirates. Unfortunately for Luke, this was the most fun she'd had in ages. She felt conflicted; perhaps, she should have stepped in for Luke's sake, but he'd instigated the fight without reason – save for that it was a foreign pirate on the island. She also felt a bit embarrassed for having even thought of worrying about the Second-Division Commander. He was a swell fighter.

After a little while, it was undeniably clear who the victor was. Nothing overly amazingbig had happened, even if Luke was a lieutenant commander. LHuke had tired himself out, swinging so heavily at Ace. He'd become so drained that all Ace had to do was lightly push him, and he fell over. Ace demonstrated an intense amount of control, drunken stupor aside. He was the representation of someone having been in many fights.

Cheers rang out across the room. The crowd didn't seem to care who the winner was; they were just in it for a show! Individuals began to dance, singing, giggling, reaching for alcohol. Others began to head out, patting Rosalia on the shoulder, or apologizing for not ordering a drink, having only come to witness the showdown.

Ace was having his own sort of fun with the crowd he was entertaining. People were clapping, dancing around him, asking him questions. He had morphed from the sleepier, drunken fool to a lively, still-half-lidded drunken fool. She let him be, realizing now that the show was over;, and her duties were back in full swing. Rosalia continued to cater to the whims of the masses until she felt an arm rest on her shoulder. To her left was Otto, looking outwards toward the slowly diminishing crowd.

"You did well today," he told her softly.

She scrunched up her nose. "Are you trying to tell me this is a rarity for me?"

Otto started to laugh, a hearty chuckle, something she could have only imagined as being even livelier when he was younger. "No, no. But you must admit that this is a day like no other." She nodded.

He continued, "Well, I must admit, it's not every day that the great Rosalia Cass decides to keep her eye on a boy, defend the lad and watch him in rapture as he goes after a fellow friend of hers." His chuckle was beginning to swell again.

"I most certainly did not have my eyes on him!" She yelled out, her blush almost entirely conveying a different message. Masking her tone, Rosalia attempted to sound more convincing, even though she almost entirely sounded like a child trying to persuade a store manager to let her have a piece of candy for free when, in truth, she had already eaten it. "I just thought he was interesting. And Luke warned me that something might have been coming so I absolutely had to make sure he wasn't a threat to this wonderful establishment I just so happen to work at," she ground out, barely managing to say the end of the last sentence, the slight signs of a smirk appearing on her lips.

Otto just wasn't having it. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

Her blush was becoming ridiculously vibrant. "Just praising the workplace. Keeping the peace," Rosalia squeaked out.

"Mh-hmm. You did a positively smashing job with that. Your friend there," he paused, pointing to Luke, "he really looks like the ultimate representation of peace." She started to laugh. "Imagine sending that piece of work to your father, kid. He'd have our heads!" They couldn't help but continue to chuckle. The whole situation had become so ridiculous.

"We're going to have to take him home at some point," Rosalia muttered, frowning when she remembered she had already lifted one heavy male that day.

"And we're going to have to explain w _hy_ we're carrying an unconscious marine halfway across town," Otto added, realizing there wasn't a sneakier way to just get him home.

"Well, we could attempt to wake him up."

"Too risky. The pirate's still here," they both glanced at Ace. "That kid's positively thriving here. Jeez. For someone drunk and just in a fight, you'd think he'd be exhausted."

She nodded in agreement. "We could . . . We could totally drag him to the back, and have him sleep in the kitchen for the night," Rosalia suggested, her tone coming across as unsure. She knew that wasn't really the best solution either.

"Uh, not in my kitchen."

"Okay, okay, so, we drag him out back instead."

He side-eyed her. "He's not a dead body, Rose. What on earth is with you and dragging this kid all over?"

She giggled. "Nothing, nothing," she slightly raised her right hand in surrender. "I'm out of any sort of ideas though." He shook his head, unimpressed by her lack of imagination.

"For a girl who reads books all the time, you're quite challenged when it comes to thinking outside of the box," Otto stated, having already had a plan slowly forming in the back of his mind.

Her jaw dropped in disbelief. "Are you serious? I read historical novels. There's no fantasy involved in that!"

Otto rolled his eyes, removing his hand from her shoulder. He hadn't realized he'd been using her as a resting spot. "Okay, kid, here's the plan: You're going to take that bubbly pirate with you and leave. I'm going to take that idiot Marine to his home as soon as everyone else leaves. And then, as per usual, you and I rendezvous the same time tomorrow to repeat this endless cycle of drink and food. Got it?"

She nodded, assuming Otto was feeling pretty darn good about himself right about now. He did figure everything out quite nicely even though he usually didn't let her go this early, especially when it was still pretty busy. She supposed that he was probably a bit concerned that her father might stop in and take matters into his own hands – something neither of them wanted.

Rosalia took off her apron and placed it on the back counter, a mix of slightly folded, slightly haphazard. Grabbing her bookbag from where she placed it earlier, Rosalia tossed it over her shoulder, coat tucked over the bag. It was too warm to wear it after being immersed in the tight proximity that was human contact in the bar. She felt sweaty just thinking about how close she was to so many people. Shuddering a bit, she started to think about how badly she would reek of booze later.

Rosalia gave one last look at Otto, a nonchalant salute made with her right arm. "See you later, Otto!"

He'd nodded to her. He felt she looked ridiculous. She always saluted to him, having taken the habit from the boys who always used to salute to her father, but she altered it, slightly. Her hand position was always a bit different.

As she made her way through the crowd, Rosalia scanned for Ace throughout the menagerie of faces provided in the dimly lit room.

Surprisingly, Ace had found her first, pulling her aside right around when she got closer to the front door. She couldn't differentiate between figures and shadows as she neared the exit. Well, until he pulled her to him, having grabbed her right wrist.

"Well, now, Cowboy, I don't exactly know how pirates operate, but in these parts, we don't grab poor, unsuspecting bartenders into the corner after a busy shift," Rosalia joked with him.

Ace smirked at her. "It looked like you were leaving."

"Because I am leaving," she answered simply. "It's apparently my job to take you with me."

His smirk grew. " _Ohhh_ , is it really now? Take me where?"

She could feel the blush dusting her face again. Rosalia was just thankful the corner was dark enough that the only things she could see were the outline of Ace's body and the slight light in his eyes when he looked at her.

"Anywhere that isn't as accessible to the marines," she mumbled.

Ace chuckled, still holding onto her wrist. "I suppose I wouldn't mind avoiding a third mishap with the marines today."

"Honestly, same. But for me, that would be my fourth. I encountered Luke twice today." Rosalia tapped her chin, thoughtfully, with her index finger. "Well, I guess you wouldn't be able to stay at the inn – especially not after today's events. And it takes at least three days for the log pose to set in for this island." She mentioned that last bit after seeing the pose on his left wrist.

He nodded, removing his hand to mimic her finger-tapping movements.

"Ooh, you think you're funny, don'tcha? Well, we can walk to my place, I _guess_ ," Rosalia decided, her tone becoming increasingly sarcastic.

"I'm honored!" Ace placed a hand on his chest in mockery.

She scoffed at him. "You say that now, but you haven't met Red yet."

* * *

Rosalia enjoyed the walk back to her home far more than the breakneck sprint to work earlier that day. It was so much more relaxing to take in the scenery around her – the flowers that seemed to have been lightly sprinkled in different arrays around the pathways, the variance of trees that towered far above her, a small stream to her left, trickling quietly into the night. An owl was hooting in the distance, probably awaiting the chance for small prey to scurry by. A breeze swept up, rustling the leaves and the blades of grass. Her hair seemed to come even more undone from her braid. Rosalia undid it from the hair-tie, allowing the wind to move her hair however it so pleased.

Ace seemed equally as content by the serenity of the island. After the bustle from being inside the tightly-packed bar, the outdoors was a pleasant change.

"You know," he began, using a tone softer than he had been using in the bar, yet still retaining its playful quality, "you never gave me any information."

Rosalia raised an eyebrow, refusing to look at him. He was drunk and still asking for information? "Your point?"

"Well, your, uh, required 'equal exchange' mandate – have I satisfied it?"

She bit her lip. He _had_ been paying attention to what she had been saying, shockingly.

"No."

"What on earth do you mean, 'no?!'" He exclaimed, turning her to face him.

She smirked. "I'm messing around, Cowboy." Rosalia shrugged. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

Ace's mouth had become slightly agape, astounded by her behavior. "You know, for the record, you're absolutely a brat."

Rosalia couldn't believe it. She started laughing. "Well, now, I thought you wanted information, Portgas! Mocking me will get you nowhere." Rosalia started to skip ahead of him, relishing the fact that someone was relying quite greatly on her for something. She couldn't help but play with him; most of the island didn't enjoy her sarcastic wit!

Ace quickened his pace so that their strides were almost equal again. "You're ridiculous."

"I get that comment a lot."

"I'm sure you do," he retorted.

After a brief silence, it seemed that Ace was done waiting for her to respond to him. "Have you had other pirate crews stop here previously?"

She nodded. "Recently, too. Most people don't frequent this island, in part due to its smaller size, but also due to the fact my father resides here."

"Did any stand out to you?"

Rosalia, having already been slowing her skipping, stopped entirely. "Crews or pirates, you mean?"

"Both. Whichever had a bigger impact."

Again, Rosalia nodded, mulling over his comment. She realized quite quickly that he was looking for a fellow pirate.

"Hmm. Well, a little while ago, we did have a pirate and a few other men stop in," she paused, collecting her thoughts. He hadn't been a problem, she realized. They went quietly, seemingly in a rush to get from one island to the other.

Ace looked over, his entire demeanor becoming extremely serious. He'd become tense, his left hand slowly forming into a fist. "The main pirate – what did he look like?"

She began to feel a bit nervous, one of the leading reasons as to why she hated providing individuals who came to the island with information.

She shrugged. "Uh, tall. Well, taller than me – most people are," Ace didn't laugh. Rosalia frowned, disheartened that she couldn't lighten the mood. "Large, tan-skinned, dark hair, either an extremely dark shade of brown, or ebony."

"Did he have a beard?" Ace asked her slowly.

She tapped her chin again, attempting to better remember his appearance despite how poorly lit the bar was. Rosalia should have informed Otto sooner that the lighting was deplorable, but she kept forgetting. If only she realized how badly she would have needed it now.

"I believe he did, yes."

That comment seemed to ignite a fire in Ace's eyes. He'd become a very different version of himself.

"Did he say where he was going?"

Rosalia tilted her head to the side. "Cowboy, I didn't really pay attention to the guy. I gave him some alcohol – that's it. I don't involve myself too heavily with the customers."

He scowled. "You don't even realize exactly who you were speaking with, do you?"

She shook her head, becoming confused. She didn't get what the big deal was. He was a pirate. He hadn't approached her aggressively. He didn't attract any serious attention from the Marines. At the time, he'd just camped out, had some drink and then seemingly disappeared.

"He's a traitor."

Truth-be-told, she expected as much. It seemed Ace had garnered a brutal personal grudge against the guy. If it could morph him from a good-natured pirate to a seemingly aggressive hot-head, something had certainly gone wrong between the two men.

Rosalia was about to ask about what had happened when she saw Ace begin to fall to the ground. With a dull thud, he landed in the dirt, completely knocked out. Initially, she thought the Marines had somehow noticed him when he left with her back to her home and landed a silent hit on him, but there was a severe lack of adequate lighting across the path to her house. The Marines were an unlikely theory.

She looked back down upon Ace in confusion until she realized he was lightly snoring. He'd fallen asleep. Mid-conversation.

Rosalia groaned for the umpteenth time that day. A twenty-year old with narcolepsy? She couldn't believe her disparagingly bad luck. She was going to have to carry Ace all the way back to her home – in the dark.

She wanted to die.

* * *

"Well, now, what happened to you?"

Red had been sitting in one of the chairs in the living room, a large reclining one. It was easily his favorite chair, a chocolate brown one, without pattern. Simply, and comfortable.

As soon as he saw her, he realized she'd been through her own personal ringer for the day. Her hair was a mess, almost gnarled. She'd somehow managed to get covered in dirt, something that would have been less obvious if only her clothing was soiled. However, it was clear that particles from the ground had managed to adopt her skin as its new home. Her book bag had flapped open, the coat looking completely disheveled over the bag – half-in, half-out.

"I – I had to cart around some vengeance-seeking, sleep-happy drunkard back here after he had some random narcolepsy attack."

Red nodded, enjoying how royally annoyed she was with the entire situation. "Sounds like an interesting day."

"'Sounds like an interesting day,'" she repeated, quite ready to mouth off at him. Rosalia disgracefully dropped Ace on the floor, the sound quite a bit louder than the thud on the dirt.

"That's not very nice," Red jokingly admonished her for dropping the kid like a sack of potatoes.

"I tripped due to his weight almost three times. I haven't smacked into the ground in such a rapid succession that often in my entire life, while this one," she gestured to Ace, "good old Sleeping Beauty here, had the luxury of landing on me every time I fell."

He shook his head. "You're skin and bones! He probably had nightmares that he was falling onto some dead animal's boney carcass."

"Oi, that's not even funny!" She blurted out in utter disbelief that he was mocking her that much after her horrendous walk home.

"Yeah, yeah. All joke's aside," Red looked down to the floor at Ace, "who is this?"

Throwing herself onto the couch in what can only be described as a sheer display of human exhaustion and defeat, Rosalia mumbled out, "That's Ace. He's a pirate."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. I somehow managed to get him drunk, involve him in a fistfight with Luke and piss him off at the mention of a pirate he knows, all in the span of a few hours."

"You have an amazing way with words, Rose."

She took a deep breath, attempting to block him out and calm herself down.

"What's this pirate's name anyway? The one he's after?"

Rosalia thought back to it. She realized she knew his name. She probably could have made her life easier if she said so from the start.

"'Blackbeard.' He goes by the name 'Blackbeard.'"


	5. The Wait

I have such a lack of confidence when it comes to releasing new chapters for my stories. It's caused a massive delay in getting any updates out, and I apologize for that. This chapter has been sitting on my computer for months, finished. I made some minor changes only a little while ago, and just never got around to posting it because of how poorly I view my writing sometimes.

I'm going to work harder on my updating in the hopes of sparking greater reviews from you all that have been reading, following and favoriting. Obviously, what is important is getting the chapters out so that there's content to be had rather than four measly chapters that could be something good.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and if anything seems off, or seems good, please do let me know!

 _Disclaimer: {_ **One Piece** _, the world, and its characters, belong to Oda. OCs belong to me. Definitions typically belong to the Webster online dictionary.}_

* * *

5\. The Wait

 _cacophony (n.) - a harsh discordant mixture of sounds_

Red had been waiting. Waiting, constantly checking, pacing. Being a homebody was something he felt he could never grow accustomed to. After having been selected – though, 'aggressively forced into' seemed more fitting – for the position as Rosalia's caretaker, Red's unending freedom had slowly dwindled away, until his existence became what it was now: a newspaper reading, shogi playing, cooking, babysitter.

And as any and all who've ever been subjected to this decidedly necessary, yet unbelievably boring concept of waiting: it gets _old_. As the clock continues to perform the same revolutions every day, mimicking the sun, so too does mundanity continue to ebb and flow into this endless cycle of drudgery.

He'd told Rosalia this fact when she was a child. He'd continued to enlighten her with ideas of what's out there, beyond the confines of the home, of the island, of rules and regulations. And as she aged and divulged into the poetic tales of the many great authors, the lexical masterminds of the world, Red realized a sad truth: he'd grown old. Not visibly; mentally. He'd aged in his outlook of the world, having accepted, with a somber heart, that the adventures of the past would remain there, so long as he were to stay on this island.

As he'd grown complacent in his behavior, Red had assumed that every night Rosalia returned from work would be like the last. He'd grown so used to everything she did. The majority of his existence, exciting or simplistic, was based on what Rosalia said or did. Which is why, as he sat there, reading an old paper in his favorite armchair, the names of the New World stole his breath, shocking him to the very core, rekindling a dying flame of emotion.

"Blackbeard." The name seemed to ring on endlessly in his ears, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling in excitement. Had Rosalia been more awake, she might have seen the feral-like look on her friend's face, his eyes slowly unveiling the fires of adventure and rebellion. He'd begun to clench his teeth, contemplating how to read the situation without yelling out in complete jubilance.

Finally, after gradually collecting himself to a less energetic state, he uttered, "Blackbeard?"

Rosalia opened her dozing eyes, her breaths having become calmer as she was in the process of drifting off to sleep. Half-lidded, she regarded his question, and then nodded. "That's his name, yeah."

"Did he give you anything else? A full-name?"

Rosalia shook her head. "Just Blackbeard, Red. I'm sure when Ace wakes up, he'll be able to tell you more."

Red frowned, having taken in how exhausted she was. Normally, she'd be reading, or taking note of something she'd noticed. She'd spoken cognitively, but each word had become heavier when said aloud. He stood up, proceeding to cover her with a cream-colored blanket previously strewn haphazardly on the back of his chair. As soon as her breaths resumed to their gentle, relaxed ways, Red contemplated how long he'd have to wait for the pirate Rosalia brought back to their home to wake up.

He debated kicking the young pirate awake. While the action would certainly be a felicitous one for himself, as the pirate would most assuredly become startled enough to wake, the consequences could easily negate the desired outcome. So, in the wake of this revelation, Red huffed in annoyance and proceeded to perform an action only he could do extremely well: _wait_.

It was almost laughable how ridiculous this game had gotten. That his life's path was to wait, wait, wait and then eventually accept whatever the outcome of waiting was.

Perhaps he was experiencing a mid-life crisis years too early? Perhaps this was retribution for the deeds he'd done in the past? Or, perhaps, this waiting game was simply retaliation for assisting Rosalia years ago?

He wanted to laugh. He really did.

However, the wheels of time decided he'd waited long enough.

A slight shuffling noise arose from where the pirate had been disgracefully dropped. A foot moved, rocking on its heel. Then a hand, the fingers stretching and shrinking, probably trying to identify the floor they were on. And then the raising of the head, abrupt, flinchingly quick.

Normal. All decidedly normal reactions for an individual of his caliber. Red shook his head, the disbelief ever-present on his face.

They made eye-contact, and suddenly, Ace was up, flames slowly starting to light his left-arm. The response was certainly not one out of fear, simply self-defense.

"You're fine, Ace."

Ace's flames seemed to pause, the slivers of flame contemplating their next course of action.

"Rosalia's on the couch," he jutted his chin in her direction. "No need to be hasty." Red's hands raised, palms open, signally a lack of danger, at least for the time being.

The flames went out. Their owner's mind apparently away, deep in thought. Ace lifted his head, making it apparent that he would stand his ground if necessary. "And you are?"

Red smiled. Ace behaved in a manner akin to Rosalia's: cautious, yet not timid. It was a respectable approach when meeting strangers. "Her caretaker of sorts," he remarked sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. "If I were worried about you, trust me, we wouldn't be having a conversation."

"And why's that?"

His smile grew. "Well, for starters, you'd be dead."

Ace's eyes grew wide, a quiet fire smoldering within them. The room was tense. Not typically an approach Red was accustomed to taking, the current way the discussion was going was anything but peaceful.

"She said you're after a pirate. Named 'Blackbeard,' or something."

The topic change startled Ace. He felt unsteady in Red's presence – that much was obvious. He felt only worry about the man, which was why his flames were so readily available. Yet, this inkling of danger slackened when he saw Rosalia asleep. Debating how exactly to respond, Ace bit the bullet and grunted out, "I am."

"You prepared to be a murderer?" The inquiry was nonchalant; Red was aloof in that way. But for Ace, the question carried a different form of weight, him being a youth, right out of his teen years.

"An eye for an eye; a life for a life," Ace said, knowing that he carried the responsibility of a division commander on his shoulders. "He killed someone close to me."

Red mulled over Ace's words, impressed by how simple he made it seem. "You know," he began, "when she was a child," he pointed to Rosalia, "all she ever wanted was to wield a blade." Red smiled at the memory. "She'd – somehow – acquire some of the sharpest knives she could find, and cut things: bread, clothing, furniture. She had an innate desire to attack." He paused, seeing Ace angle his head to the left. "I asked her to kill a rabbit for me; skin it. Things of that nature. She wanted to cut, she'd have to learn how to kill," he placed his elbow on the armrest to prop his chin. "Rosalia cried, begged me to come up with anything else imaginable. She screamed that it was wrong, unethical. That the rabbit was a living being."

After a short pause, Red said, "You know, she wasn't wrong. In fact, when considering how a child perceives the world, what she said was powerful. Powerful and naïve."

Ace looked at him, prompting him to continue. "You can give a child a book, and they can decide whether or not they want to read it. If they do, they learn. In the same way, you can give a man a weapon, and they can decide whether they want to use it. The difference here," Red points with his two index fingers, one to the left, one to the right, creating a large 'V'. "The difference here is that your opportunity becomes exponentially larger. You can take the weapon and kill, or take the weapon and defend. Or, you can reject the weapon, and be ignorant of the ways of violence."

"Your point?" Ace asked, understanding some of what was said.

"My point is this: You have this weapon – this Devil Fruit. And when it matters most, in our case, in 'killing this rabbit,' are you in the position to kill?" Red let the question hang, knowing he'd chipped away at something that'd been bothering Ace. "This man was a friend of yours. The chance you get cold feet is far greater than me advising that Rose goes and ends the life of a rabbit.

"In two days, you have the ability to chase after this man again. Or, you can return to your captain's ship, embrace the men you've bonded with, and handle the situation differently." Red sighed. "The choice is ultimately yours, but if," he gestured to Rosalia, "she hears your plans, you might have to rethink your entire state of being."

He stood up. "I won't keep you awake, narcoleptic nap in or not. Sleep, and in the morning, the three of us can discuss your plans for leaving the island." Giving Ace one last look, he remarked, "I'm Red, by the way. Just thought I'd add in that detail."

As he ventured down the hall, Red frowned.

The name 'Blackbeard' and the man christened with said name – perhaps, this was a situation darker than he'd fathomed.

* * *

She couldn't stop giggling. "You think he's insane?" Another round of giggles ensued.

"Yes! There's something wrong with that guy," Ace answered, in complete and utter positivity that the man he spoke with last night was most certainly not right in the head.

He'd explained to Rosalia explicitly what had transpired in their conversation the night before, and the only, _only_ issue she had with the entire situation was the fact that he'd told mistaken the animal he told her to go after – she was to go after a chicken and not a rabbit.

She continued to shake her head, laughing at Ace's complete outrage at her friend. "Well, if you're going to disagree with me, then you're crazy, too, Rosalia!" He crossed his arms, acknowledging that his outbursts were uncharacteristically immature.

"I am not!" She spluttered out. "He was trying to gauge whether or not _you_ were the loon, Cowboy!"

"He said he was going to kill me."

"Oh, I apologize! I must have missed the part where I started to hold a conversation with your corpse."

Ace rolled his eyes. He so desperately wanted to laugh with her – her laugh being absolutely infectious. But he was concerned. Despite Red's urging for sleep, Ace was unable to relax, and instead, thought about the events that occurred at the bar and afterwards. Even the concept of sleeping with one-eye open was not enough to ease his lack of trust with Red.

Ace opened his mouth to admonish her, when Red appeared in the door way of the living room. "Oh, Red! Good morning!" Rosalia called out, still feeling giddy. "Believe it or not, we are the two luckiest human beings in the world!"

"And why is that, Rose?" Red asked, trying to maintain a serious facial expression, and failing miserably.

"Well, quite honestly, we are so unbelievably blessed with the gratuitous good fortune to have a living, breathing – shockingly _not_ dead – body in this room: Ace's!" She started to giggle again, her body shaking at how ridiculous the morning had begun.

Red started to laugh. "You're a nut, Rosalia. I don't know how much longer I can put up with you."

"Psh! You're kidding. You'll never grow tired of me!" She called out, hearing him meander over to the kitchen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm making breakfast for myself," Red remarked, the aftereffects of her laugh still reminiscent on his face. "What do you two want?"

Rosalia eagerly glanced over at Ace, grabbing him by the wrist. "Let's go make breakfast!"

And thus, he was enlisted into her plight for food.

* * *

"So, what did you two end up discussing?" Rosalia inquired, curious as she had missed everything due to her onset comatose the night before. She'd been pleasantly surprised by the eggs she'd managed to fry up herself, the yolk and bread a perfect mix of flavors.

To her mild annoyance, neither male seemed to feel the need to divulge and answer her question.

" _Interesting_ ," she ground out. "It must have been a positively _amazing_ discussion for Red to have prompted that he was going to kill you, isn't that right, Ace?"

Ace flinched a bit at her tone, thinking that perhaps maybe Red was the lesser of the two evils.

"Sleeping gets you nowhere in life, Rose," Red responded. "How many times must I tell you for you to learn?"

"So? I fell asleep as soon as I dropped his comatose body on the floor and suddenly I'm the one to blame?"

Red took an egregiously large bite of his bread. "Yes."

"Oh, _come on._ "

"Well, if you must know, Ace will be leaving after tomorrow," Red remarked, relishing the fact that dancing over the topic at hand was making Rosalia squirm in annoyance. Patience might be a virtue, but at this very second, she considered it nothing more than a nuisance.

Ace nodded in agreement. No matter what, his goal was ultimately to leave the island.

"And do what?"

Red looked at her. "And get on with his life? Why else would someone venture away from an island?"

"B-but – "

Ace started to laugh aloud, realizing that Rosalia's confusion stemmed from the fact that this home was all she'd ever known, something she'd disclosed to him in his drunken state. He'd been so busy scarfing down the majority of the food on the table, he hadn't whole-heartedly been immersed in the conversation. "It's like one of those story books you read, Rosalia. I'm like a lost kid going on an adventure."

"So, our next course of action is to make sure your father doesn't find out that Ace is staying here until the log pose sets."

Rosalia's eyes flickered between their faces, one second on Red's, another on Ace's. "There's something neither of you are telling me."

Ace and Red made eye-contact. "No," they both responded simultaneously.

"'No-o-o,'" she repeated, the sarcastic tone in her voice well-heard. "This is about that pirate. 'Blackbeard,' right? You're leaving to go after him?"

Ace nodded, both men understanding that the jig was up.

"So, what happens then? Are you going to tell the Marines? Turn him in? Or are you going to, well, I don't know – talk to him, maybe?"

Both men sighed. "Still so naïve, Rosalia."

"I'm going to kill him."

The comment carried weight. Her eyes seemed to become saucers, but there was anger within their shock.

"You can't." Her voice was shaky, breaking between both words.

Ace could feel the pain in her voice. "I have to, Rosalia. He's wronged my division, my crew and my captain."

She shook her head. "There are other ways," she whispered. Rosalia started to pick at her food, whatever's left of the egg becoming a disheveled shell of what was once a delicious looking breakfast.

"Rosalia."

She looked over to Red. "The egg isn't at fault here."

Rosalia slammed her hands on the table. The slam seemed to echo, maybe not throughout the house, but certainly, it rang through both Red's and Ace's ears. However, the slam was more than a cacophonous noise, a frightening jolt of sound – for Rosalia, it was a cry, an aching pain of something hidden under the guise of happiness, the mask of normalcy.

And Red knew it all too well. He'd seen the look before, and he knew he'd see it again. The face of sheer wrath and restrained ire – the expression of loss and vengeance and hopelessness.

"No one should have to experience that," Rosalia whispered hoarsely. She left the room almost immediately after, her feelings an intense swirl. At this point, her safest place would be her haven of words: her bedroom.

Red took a swig of his coffee, contemplating how he could relieve the tension he and Ace knowingly introduced. "Well, that went better than I expected."

He received a look.

"All right, all right. I get it; the situation seems pretty strained." Ace raised his eyebrows in disbelief at Red's commentary. "Well, last time we got into an argument, Rosalia hit me, so, like I said: it went better than expected."

Red received another look. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but, uh, that reaction seemed a little bizarre, if not over-the-top, even for Rosalia." Ace shrugged, hoping his commentary didn't come across too negatively.

"If you knew her, you'd understand," Red stated, seemingly trying to grasp at straws without revealing too much of a life very much so not his own. "She's the enigma that many have tried to piece together, but very few have remained long enough to get the chance." He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. "She abhors violence. She's lost individuals she was close with. She understands loss better than most kids her age."

"So, that's why you wanted me to hold off on telling her I would be leaving?"

"Precisely. And unfortunately, she's a bit too good at picking up on unspoken statements," he mumbled something derogatory under his breath, crossing his arms. "She'll be fine . . . I think."

Ace sweat-dropped. Scratch what he said earlier, Red was the greater of the two evils.

* * *

He walked slowly up the stairs. He knew he wasn't expected to check on her – he barely knew her. Anything beyond the rather polite and humorous discourse they had at the bar was completely out of his hands. And yet, something her ever-so-spectacular caretaker had said stuck with him. Ace felt that it was at least a common courtesy to inquire as to whether or not she was okay.

Of course, that meant possibly stepping into the lion's den with a girl who had an unexpectedly large and mysterious amount of baggage beneath her jovial outer appearance – something a person should never expect from a spry seventeen-year-old.

Ace opened the door, exercising extreme caution, and stepped into the brightly lit room – the sun cascading throughout. The room – _her_ room – was a chaotic mess. Books were scattered everywhere: the foot of the bed, under the covers, on bookcases, underneath and on top of the desk. Beyond the books, papers were folded haphazardly into some books, thrown underneath others, crumpled onto the floor. And yet, that wasn't what intrigued him the most.

 _Words. Words were everywhere._

Quotes littered the walls, writing seemed to ooze from the paintings strewn around the room.

Quite frankly, Ace had never been in a room like this; not back before he set sail, not on the Moby Dick. He'd never really felt the need to deeply immerse himself in literature or in the writings of others, and yet, this room spoke volumes upon volumes of philosophy, of history, of great men of the past and possible leaders of the future, of worlds gone and worlds to come.

"Get out."

Ace couldn't seem to locate the voice. He expected her to be at the desk, but the chair was empty. The floor was far too messy to sit comfortably, which left only one place: the bed. He could see the small lump to the right of the books under the covers begin to twitch.

He wanted to laugh. He could feel the light rumble building in the back of his throat, though he covered it with a cough. "I wanted to speak with you."

She croaked out, "Why? So you can make fun of me for not wanting to destroy everything in sight like a pirate?"

Ace blinked, mildly surprised she'd attack him in that way. "I'm not here to make fun of you."

"Well, I'm not here to have you justify your plans."

She was stubborn. He hadn't realized that underneath her maturity, Rosalia shared a rebellious streak akin to another bratty pirate he knew.

He proceeded to walk over to the bed, placed the books on the floor and waited. Waited until she decided that she was being immature. Gradually, she dredged herself up from the blankets, showing Ace only the top portion of her face – from the nose up. A sigh.

"Red sent you up here?" she mumbled, eyes looking downcast towards the door.

"I'd be lying if I said he did," Ace remarked, giving her a small smile.

She sighed again. "Well, what did you want to talk about?" Rosalia still refused to look at him, but he noted the faint blush appearing beneath her eyes – embarrassment for him coming up here without Red's probing, Ace assumed.

"Dreams. Aspirations. Whatever it takes to get you to stop being so downcast."

An eyeroll. "Well, maybe I don't have any dreams."

Ace sighed. "You're not making this easy for me." She saw his shoulders hunch, dejected that she'd stubbornly shot down his inquiry.

She bit her lip. "All right, fine," Rosalia relented. "I, well, I'm not entirely sure what I want to do. I think . . . a mass record of every Devil Fruit discovered in the world would be interesting. A large, excruciatingly long, drawn out document concerning the users, where they acquired it, what it does. So on." She paused, thinking about all the different ways she could enlighten herself and others to the mysterious fruits. "You know, many people don't know about them. So, uh, I thought maybe I'd travel to learn about them."

Ace seemed puzzled. "Why Devil Fruits? Of all the things in the world to research."

Slowly, Rosalia began to reveal more of her face to him. "Well, many of the Marines have – by some means – acquired said fruits, and that's – well, quite honestly, that's bad news for the pirates. I may be a neutral party to both sides, but more often than not, the pirates have greater charm."

"So, you want to inform the world of all the abilities out there?"

She smirked, a slightly devilish look appearing on her face. "Do you remember what I said to you when you asked me for information? That I was the secret-keeper of the island?" Ace nodded. "Well, imagine how glorious it would be if I – somehow – was able to discover all of the secret abilities of men and women throughout the world. I'd become a crucial secret-keeper indeed."

Ace sweat-dropped. Red had raised an information-seeking monster of greed. Rosalia started to laugh. "I mean, it's a stretch. But I really do want to have that information. If the simpler folk, such as myself, were able to one-up the government, well . . . " She spread her arms wide, letting the words permeate in the air.

"You're bolder than I originally thought, Rosalia Cass," Ace admitted, certainly surprised by her aspirations, especially when they pertained to something as wild as having a greater hand over the government.

"Thank you," she quipped. At that very moment, she could have never imagined that she'd be revealing her greatest trump card to a stray pirate, but in that very same moment, everything she said felt exactly right. No word was wasted. "What about you, Cowboy? Do cowboys dream?"

Ace started to laugh. "Are you serious? That's how you're going to ask me?" She nodded vigorously, clearly trying to hide her own laughter. Smiling, he propped his chin up with the palm of his hand. "Well, I'm thinking that I'd certainly like to see my captain become the Pirate King – it would be quite a feat to become a commander to the Pirate King, don'tcha think?"


End file.
